McKeith had dismounted, and with one foot on the edge of the veranda, was facing Mrs Hensor, who looked fresh and comely in a clean blouse and bright-coloured skirt.

The two seemed to have a good deal to say to each other, though Lady Bridget heard only the voices, not the words.

Her Irish temper rose at the thought that Mrs Hensor might be giving him her version of the Wombo episode.

She felt glad that the black-boy and his gin were comfortably sleeping off the effect of their wounds, and of the plentiful meals supplied them in the hide-house, and thus were not in evidence.

When McKeith spoke, it was in a dictatorial, angry tone--that of the incensed master.